


The Truth About Monsters

by kbaycolt



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Archivist Jonathan Sims, Canon-Typical Jonah Magnus Bastardy, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, Demons, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Multi, No beta we die like archival assistants, Shapeshifting, The Author Regrets Nothing, Witchcraft, inconsistent posting schedule sorry!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24727021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbaycolt/pseuds/kbaycolt
Summary: Jonathan Sims, accidental cultist and former apprentice to King Jonah Magnus.Prince Tim Stoker, royal heir and thief.Sasha James, professional witch.Martin Blackwood, adopted son of the Mother of Puppets.Daisy Tonner, bounty hunter.Melanie King, warrior.Basira Hussain, huntswoman.In a land of magic and monsters, nothing is as simple as it seems for this unorthodox team, who will have to work together to save the world from those who aim to end it. Only tense friendships and half-truths keep them from falling apart—and the fate of the world hinges on their success.But there are other sinister plans at work. Nothing and no one can be trusted.Beholding watches, and bides its time.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonah Magnus & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Original Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Melanie King
Comments: 17
Kudos: 82





	1. Enter: Jonah Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gertrude Robinson is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: graphic gore

Jonah Magnus, heir to the throne and King of Caleina, delicately swiped a dot of blood from his sleeve with his finger.

It was dark, and shiny, and glistened beneath the dim torchlight. He frowned. Absently, he stuck his finger in his mouth as he stepped over Gertrude Robinson's body, which lay crumpled at his feet.

The golden crown on his head hummed against his skin, displeased.

"She was growing too suspicious," he murmured. He went to the window and drew the velvet curtains closed, obscuring the darkened city from view. His shoes, coated in blood, made unpleasant sticking sounds as he walked over the polished floorboards. "I could not allow her to intervene. This is for the greater good."

He knew he had not succeeded in soothing his god when a spike of pain stabbed between his eyes. He braced himself on the wall, breathing deeply through it as he waited for the Watcher's ire to abate. The crown felt much too cold.

"I'm sorry," he said, blinking rapidly. "Truly. I regret selecting her in the first place. This is my fault and mine alone."

After a moment, the throbbing pain receded somewhat. He straightened cautiously, and began to shed his bloody clothes; first shoes, then gloves, then overcoat. All beyond repair. He shook them out, then tossed them haphazardly around the room.

It was unfortunate that Gertrude had chosen his chambers for her murder attempt, because it would be difficult to explain to the castle servants why his apprentice decided to commit suicide where she would be easily discovered.

Hm. Well, cover-ups were his specialty.

The space was already a disaster from their brief altercation, but Jonah kicked over a stool and scattered a few papers for good measure.

He paused in front of a large oval mirror on the wall. Oh dear. He was covered in a gruesome amount of bodily fluids, mostly blood but also, interestingly, oil. His auburn hair fell loose and wild over his eyes. With the crown sitting lopsided on his head and the slightly manic curl of his lips, he made for quite the ghastly sight.

All the better for his cover story; less so for his ego.

With practiced motions, he peered through his blood-splattered glasses and fixed his unruly red curls in the mirror. Looking disheveled in any manner that was not artfully unkempt was a low he refused to fall to. Deaths were necessary in his line of business, but he had no need to be prowling around like a ghoulish specter, grotesquely slaughtered in a previous life and damned to haunt the mortal realm. He chuckled softly to himself. Mordechai had been right to call him vain.

Mordechai would not have been particularly pleased with his methods. Lukases tended to prefer clean kills, though Jonah hesitated to label them as such. He didn't believe that allowing someone to wander forever in the Moorlands, surrounded by creeping fog, counted as an active sacrifice. But, if Forsaken accepted it, Jonah was in no position to offer critique.

No doubt, he would have suffered much ridicule from Mordechai, incorrigible as he was, for allowing his unblemished skin to be stained with blood.

That was, if aforementioned incorrigible man was alive. No, Mordechai was long, long dead, cold in his tomb. Dwelling on him was akin to honoring him, and he would have shuddered to know that Jonah honored his memory in any sense.

Distantly fascinated, he watched his own smile slide off his face. Gertrude's lifeless limbs twitched on the floor. He was decidedly less attractive when he frowned, and he made an attempt to tug his lips back up into a pleasant curve.

The crown chilled a few more degrees and Jonah shivered.

 _Enough stalling,_ it meant.

He picked up ornate dagger from a shelf. The sharp steel glinted in his grip. Turning and kneeling beside Gertrude's body, he grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her back, revealing her unseeing eyes and blood-soaked front. Her typically tidy grey hair was falling out of her bun. There was a thin line of dried blood by her mouth. The great Gertrude Robinson, reduced to nothing more than a stiff corpse and a distant memory.

"Such a pity. We could have been glorious."

Jonah plunged the dagger into Gertrude's left eye, and with an easy twist of his wrist, crushed it. He repeated the motion with her other eye, leaving her with two ruined and bleeding sockets.

Sighing, he rose to his feet and set the dagger on a table nearby. It would stain the wood. A pity.

A prickling sensation spread over his forehead. The crown's humming shifted into a gentle buzz, and his eyelids fluttered, basking in his god's comfort and approval. His hands went up to trace the gold edges, which now radiated a pleasant warmth.

He almost began to weep. Even after all of his failures, all of his disobedience, still he was forgiven. Still he was needed.

"I am sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. "I will do better."

The room's only torch flickered down to a faint orange glow, plunging him and Gertrude's lifeless body into almost-complete darkness. Eventually, some poor servant would make their way up here, and they would discover nothing more than a cadaver, not yet rotten, and a king, distraught from the loss of his only apprentice.

The feeling of eyes on the back of his neck intensified, pressing against his awareness.

Jonah staggered, legs buckling at the sudden oppressive weight, and he fell to the floor, clasping the crown tight to his head. He shut his eyes, stopping the reverent tears from spilling down his face. Affirmation warmed him to his bones. Every nerve stung with the ravenous divinity of his god. The crown buzzed as if a furious swarm of wasps raced beneath it's golden surface, scalding to the touch. Quiet, raw laughter bubbled out of his chest and tore itself from his parted lips.

Speculation and rumors would spread like wildfire. Funeral details would be handled. A new Archivist would be chosen. Life would carry on with the first creeping rays of dawn.

There was work to be done.

Shrouded in darkness, he covered his rising grin with blood-stained fingers.

"Thank you, Gertrude," Jonah said. The words echoed in the grave silence. "Your failures will pave the way to a future of many, many successes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this should technically qualify as a prologue but *jazz hands* ao3 doesn't have that feature
> 
> welcome to my first stab at writing a full-length tma fic. this turned into a much larger project than I originally intended aaaa
> 
> anyways I'm very excited to share this with you all!! also, I have decided that the best way to force myself to be productive is by posting this and letting your comments pressure me into writing. so! that being said, please leave kudos/a comment if you enjoyed and want to see more!


	2. Enter: Jonathan Sims

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Sims is eight when he first encounters magic. Nineteen years later, he takes a position at the Magnus Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch my writing style changing every single chapter :/
> 
> okay so this is basically a lot of buildup for the next chapter, where the REAL fun begins. bear with me, y'all

Jonathan Sims was eight years old when he encountered magic for the first time.

It came in the form of a monstrous creature, dozens of spindly, hairy legs, gnashing mandibles that snapped and snarled, a great swollen abdomen, bulging and distended. The thing had crawled from a picture book and chased him up into the rafters of his grandfather's barn, where he had clung desperately to the metal bars and trembled, listening to the faint, awful skittering of many legs across the ground.

His grandmother killed it with a swift word and a strange motion he'd never seen—his second encounter with magic.

Its shuddering form crumpled, folded in on itself, and dissolved into cobwebs. But his grandmother had not been fast enough, and Jon never saw his parents, nor his grandfather, again.

That was how he learned his grandmother was a witch. And, that she wanted him to become one too.

So on his tenth birthday, she handed him a leather-bound book with a fancy gold inscription on the cover, in a language he couldn't read.

"I had hoped to keep you away from all this," she said grimly. "But we can't ignore what is right in front of us, and I won't leave you defenseless. In a world like ours, you must use all the tools at your disposal."

The witch book, as it turned out, was filled with spells. They were simple: often only a phrase or an action. The more complicated spells were in the back, and his grandmother forbid him from attempting them at his age. If there was one thing that triumphed over his natural curiosity, it was his grandmother's wrath.

And, anyways, it didn't matter, because he couldn't work even the easiest of spells. No matter how much he concentrated, or perfected his pronunciation, he never felt anything and nothing ever happened.

His family boasted a long line of successful witches and magicians, but at every turn he failed to live up to his ancestors' legacy. He just wasn't cut out for the type of magic that they studied.

His grandmother, though she tried to hide it, was clearly rather frustrated with him.

It frustrated him, too, to no end. He practiced over and over again, meticulously reading each spell aloud and waving his hands and doing everything he could to harness the power he knew must be there somewhere. His grandmother managed it, after all. She spoke about magic as if anyone could do it.

Evidently, 'anyone' excluded him.

He didn't give up, though the frequency of his attempts greatly decreased over the years. By the time he graduated school, he'd almost quit entirely.

At university, he threw himself into his studies. He got a job, he made friends. He ignored his lack of magical talent.

"Hey, what's this?" Georgie asked once, sliding the leather spellbook out from his shelf. "I didn't know you were a witch."

"I'm not," he muttered bitterly. "It's my grandmother's."

"Hm." She flipped to a random page in the middle. Placing it atop her knees, she balanced it carefully, then raised her hands and flicked her fingers upwards. Immediately, the lamp across the room shattered and plunged them into darkness. Jon yelped.

There was silence for a moment.

"Great," Jon said. "Everyone can use the magic book but me. Fantastic."

Georgie tsked at him. "Maybe this book just isn't your type of magic. You should try some others, mix it up a bit."

"No thank you. I don't need magic to do _everyday_ tasks."

Laughing softly, she put the book back. "Alright, Jonathan."

* * *

Jonathan Sims was twenty seven years old, sprawled on the floor of his dormitory, tracing the cracks in the wall with his eyes, and his best friend, Georgie Barker, was sitting cross-legged on his bed above him, when the letter came.

"There's a bird in the window," Georgie observed.

"That there is." He hauled himself up and unlatched the window, allowing the sleek, deep black messenger hawk to hop inside. The bird nipped his fingers when he tried to take the scroll from its leg. "Ow. I don't have any treats."

"Oh, you poor thing," Georgie cooed, stroking the hawk's head. "Is Jonny being mean to you?"

"Georgie," Jon groaned.

"Aw, Jon, look at its sweet face."

"All I see are wickedly sharp talons and an equally sharp beak. Ah-ah ouch, please stop biting me." Jon finally managed to free the scroll, drawing back from the hawk and its glinting black eyes. Upon getting a better look at it, his mouth curved into a deep frown. "This... This has the royal seal."

"Really? Maybe the hawk didn't mean to land here."

"No, no, these royal hawks don't get lost. Not anymore, not since..."

 _Not since King Jonah Magnus allegedly murdered his father and took the throne_ went unsaid. Not that anything could be proven, of course, but everyone was thinking it. The previous king had been in good health, and Jonah had always been rather ambitious. Jon felt slightly sick. Georgie stopped petting the hawk.

He unfurled the scroll.

The letter was written in swooping, elegant script, each line level with the one preceding it. The creamy white paper was excellent quality, and the ink was clearly expensive. Jon held it gingerly, afraid of damaging it.

"Well?" Georgie said. "What does it say?"

"... It's an invitation. For a job." Jon looked up, eyebrows furrowed. "At the Magnus Institute."

"Really? And you're sure it's addressed to you?"

"Yes, Georgie, my name is right there. I just don't know _why_. I haven't even finished my degree, nor am I in any way qualified to be—" He glanced back down, "—the Head Archivist."

The hawk made a sharp noise and flapped its wings. Georgie went back to gently scratching the feathers behind its neck. Jon read the letter again, as if the contents had changed since he read it last. This didn't make any sense. Why was the king personally inviting him to work in a position he was woefully unqualified for? Why _him?_

"So, what are you going to do?"

Jon slowly rolled up the scroll and tucked it into his pocket. "Take the job, I suppose," he said with a sigh. "Not much else I can do."

"Mm." Georgie pressed her lips into a thin line. Jon felt like the world was collapsing out from under him. "The Institute is pretty far, isn't it."

"Yes."

"We'll keep in touch," she declared, and Jon was, once again, intensely grateful that she had placed herself firmly in his life.

"Of course, Georgie. I'll write as often as I can."

And that was that. Jon packed up his things the next week. He considered the leather spellbook, this glaring reminder of his incompetence and utter lack of skills and how he was certainly going to disappoint the king, and chose to leave it behind. The night of his departure, Georgie caught him at the doors and wrapped him in a tight hug, burying her face in his shoulder. Jon ignored the tightness in his chest and hugged her back.

"Take care of yourself, Sims," she told him, voice muffled in his shirt.

"I'll try. Bye, Georgie."

"Bye."

Then he climbed into the carriage that was waiting for him, and left his life behind.

* * *

Jonathan Sims was twenty eight years old when he finally met the king.

Five months of working at the Magnus Institute had desensitized Jon to many things. Such things included brash and reckless displays of magic—because apparently no magicians knew the meaning of the word 'caution'—and other fantastical occurrences which were so rare in his quiet hometown.

Back in Bournemouth, magicians were few and far between, and all of them exercised careful control over their magic. They knew the consequences and respected them.

It was different in the big city. Here, there was no respect for the order of the world, no care or finesse. Magicians tossed around flashy magic displays for _entertainment_. Even his fellow scholars were more interested in experimentation than learning proper control. Then, there were the people who used mock magic in mimicry of genuine spellwork, which was arguably worse. As if there weren't enough irresponsible magic wielders out there, blowing things up and playing with their powers like they were party tricks.

Spirits, Jon hated those sorts of people. He had avoided them like the plague in his college days.

Irritating colleagues aside, his job wasn't awful. However, it seemed his understanding of his position had been vastly off base.

See, typically, the title 'Head Archivist' meant someone who archived. The vast majority of people would readily give that exact answer if asked. Job titles tended to have little to no leeway when it came to their definitions.

For example: 'guard' meant someone who guarded. That was all. No wiggle room, no unknown responsibilities. Similarly, 'apothecary' meant someone well versed in medicine. When taking up such jobs, there were no surprises.

Jon had initially assumed being the Head Archivist would, as it heavily implied, mainly entail archiving.

But as it rapidly became clear to him, his other responsibilities were as followed:

1\. Keep his coworkers from wreaking havoc around the precious documents under his care.

2\. Keep his coworkers from wreaking havoc _elsewhere_.

3\. Ensure no possibly dangerous artifacts fell into his coworkers' irresponsible hands.

4\. Smooth over interdepartmental social conflicts.

5\. Ward off his coworkers' decidedly unsubtle attempts to cajole him into socialization.

So on and so forth.

He was getting rather tired of Elias Bouchard in particular, the library assistant, who took every available opportunity to insistently invite Jon out for drinks and other such activities. At any given time when Jon was not fully involved in his current task, Elias could find a way to slink into the Archives and say, while leaning rather provocatively on Jon's desk, with a cigarette dangling behind his ear and a grin playing on his lips, "Are you _sure_ you don't want to come?"

Yes, Elias was quite a nuisance.

Still, having a... well, not friend. Having an _acquaintance_ was nice. Jon got along alright with Rosie, the receptionist, on a professional level, and had met a few of the upstairs researchers, but none of them returned over and over again for a casual chat, and he never approached them unless he was roundly scolding them for something or other.

Jon wasn't even sure if Elias liked him, or just liked having someone to absently-sort-of-listen to his ramblings about this absolutely drop dead gorgeous shapeshifter he'd seen the other day, really Sims, they had the prettiest claws and golden eyes, yes they were a werewolf, why do you ask?

But, irritating as Elias was, he was also occasionally helpful, as he held some favor with the librarian whereas Jon did not.

The librarian, apparently, rivalved Jon in terms of grouchiness, which he would have found disbelievable if he had not personally met the her, and bore the brunt of her viciously piercing glare as he attempted to check out a book on ancient river valley cultists.

When everyone had gone home for the night and all that were left were a few exhausted students and the Head Archivist, Jon found time to write to Georgie. He made a little ritual out of it: first, he would snuff out the large lanterns, then leave a single flickering candle on his desk to see by. Next, he'd lay out his parchment, dip his quill in ink, and draft his letter.

He told her about Elias and Michael-From-Accounting's latest venture into the world of tarot cards. He detailed his frustrations with Michael-From-Research, and then his frustrations with the name 'Michael'. He complained about the horrendous state of the Archives. He asked about her studies.

Her responses were always enthusiastic and cheerful, but all held a sort of detachment, perfunctory politeness. She answered his questions, reacted to his stories, and was generally _Georgie,_ but Jon just couldn't shake the feeling that the distance, along with his abrupt summoning and departure, had strained their friendship.

He wrote to her anyway. There wasn't much else he could do.

And when Jon wasn't fending off his daily barrage of petty distractions, he was working in the Archives.

The Archives had been in a state of disarray for quite some time, massively due to the incompetence of the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson. Every night, he went to bed cursing Gertrude for her abhorrent neglect of such a huge host of archaic texts. He shuddered to think about the many files and papers sticking out from their shelves, seemingly stuffed there in no particular order; the teetering stacks of boxes sitting in the corners, collecting dust for what must've been many years. 

Despite Gertrude seemingly have been trying to purposefully create chaos within the Archives, he had made impressive headway.

At least he hoped he was. It was hard to tell at first glance, due to the fact that he was in the middle of completely reorganizing the shelves, all of which were laden with hundreds of papers.

Also, some of the items he had found definitely belonged in Artefact Storage, not in the Archives.

He didn't typically like to speak ill of the dead, but if he unearthed _one more_ spellbook from the Library of Jurgen Leitner he was going to find Gertrude's grave and spit on it.

Five months of working at the Magnus Institute, and it was now early July. It was a warm summer day, and the Archives were sweltering hot. Jon was rifling through a box of files on his knees, searching for any semblance of order in this downright hazardous mess and ignoring the uncomfortable trickle of sweat down his back.

He pushed aside a stack of stories about bloodthirsty hawk shifters, mentally marking them as false. Hawk shifters tended to be quite polite, actually. He had known one in his youth, a nice if erratic man by the name of Mike. He hoped Mike was doing alright for himself nowadays.

"Damn," he muttered, looking over at the huge mess of papers he'd created in the aisle. This was going to be a pain in the ass to clean up.

"Ahem."

Jon rocked back on his heels and glanced over at the door.

A man stood casually by Jon's desk, gracefully tall and thin, one hand resting on the wooden surface. His tailored clothes indicated wealth, which was automatically irritating, and he peered at Jon through a pair of round gold spectacles. He was smiling faintly. Sharp jawline, pale skin, a head of red curls that fell over his unusually piercing green eyes. Jon met his gaze, and shivered at the sudden itch of eyes on the back of his head. No, that was silly. He'd know if anyone else was here.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?" he asked. His voice had a posh, though not entirely unpleasant lilt.

Jon bit back a sharp retort. He did make an effort to be polite on occasion. "I'm afraid so. Are you lost?"

"No, no, not at all." As Jon began to rise to his feet, the other man waved at him dismissively. "Oh, please, don't pay any attention to me. I'm just taking a look."

"The Archives are off limits to the public," Jon said, with only a small amount of venom. Having someone in the Archives made his skin crawl. Even worse, having someone who wanted to... _take a look_ at his collection. That usually entailed touching, and several days of meticulous reorganization that he was not looking forward to.

The man only uttered a soft, contemplative noise in response as he strolled over to an open case file and peered at its contents.

Jon felt his blood pressure spike. " _Excuse me_."

"Hm?"

"I am the Head Archivist here at the Magnus Institute—"

"Is that so?" the man hummed.

"—and I'll not have you combing through these priceless texts on a whim! Now, if you would please allow me to escort you to reception, and Rosie will sort out all your navigational troubles." Jon flapped his hands in a shooing motion, gesturing towards the doors with poorly disguised frustration.

Laughing softly, the man turned to face him again, and again Jon felt that strange and uncomfortable itch to check behind him, though he knew for absolute certain that they were the only ones in the room.

"You must forgive me," the man said smoothly. "I forget how protective Archivists can be. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Jon."

"I—What?"

Sticking his hand out, the odd fellow blinked expectantly at him. Jon shook his hand, baffled.

"How did you know my name?"

"I know all my employees' names," he replied, bemused. "I wouldn't be a very good boss otherwise."

If his grandmother had drilled anything into him besides his crippling incompetencies, it was how to behave around royalty.

Jon dropped into a hasty bow before King Jonah Magnus, fixing his eyes on the ground as acute terror swelled up inside him. His boss. The ruler of his country. The person who personally offered Jon this position and the pay raise that came with it. Whom he had basically just told to fuck off.

"Your Majesty," Jon choked out. "I-I apologize, I didn't know it was you, I—"

A hand clasped his shoulder. He glanced up nervously to find King Magnus still smiling down at him, bright eyes, waving at him to rise. Jon straightened but kept his gaze down.

"That's alright," Magnus dismissed. "I admit, it's rather refreshing! I was used to Gertrude's... Well, let's just say she liked to make me guess at what she meant. It's rather nice, having an Archivist who speaks plainly."

"O-Oh."

Jon's head was spinning as Magnus reached out, dusting off the front of Jon's crinkled shirt. "I hope I didn't take you away from anything too important."

"No, no," Jon said in a rush, "of course not, nothing is more important than a visit from the King."

Magnus squinted at him. Almost... disappointed. Jon felt an odd pang at the sight. "Good. Have you adjusted well enough to the Archives? I understand it was a daunting task, considering the state our dearly departed Gertrude Robinson left them in."

"Hmph, yes." Despite himself, Jon scowled at the mention of Gertrude. " _Quite_ a mess. I don't know why she allowed everything to get to this point."

"Age catches us all," Magnus sighed. He gave a small smile as though he'd cracked some inside joke.

"Indeed. Can I help you with anything, Your Majesty?"

"Yes. I'd like to offer you a... promotion, of sorts. What do you know about magic?"

"Some...?" Jon trailed off with a self-conscious wince. "I'm not exactly gifted in the area."

"Natural talent isn't everything. We'll make a magician out of you yet." Magnus held out his hand. Something about it felt heavy. Final. Jon swallowed hard. "I would like to take you as my apprentice, Jon."

And as Jon shook his hand, eyes fixed on their clasped palms out of lingering anxiety, he missed the hungry glint in Jonah's sharp green eyes.

* * *

Across the country, on the western coast, Prince Timothy Stoker staggered away from the dizzying lights and throbbing tempo of the Circus, eyes stinging and heart in his throat as he ran, fleeing the _thing_ that danced upon the tightrope and wore his brother's skin.

Echoing in his head, a high, trilling voice sang the same words over and over again from his brother's lips: _The show must go on, Tim!_

"I'm coming back," he said hoarsely, to the hollow shadows of the forest at night. "I swear, Danny, I'm coming back."

He scrubbed viciously at the traitorous tears slipping down his face, sucked in a deep breath, and stumbled on into the darkness.

* * *

Sasha James curled up in her bed, shuddering with the remnants of her nightmare. A crown of eyes, a dark yellow carpet drowning in silver worms, a woman with skin that melted like wax.

She really needed to lay off the evening alcohol.

_Knock knock knock knock._

Her heart jumped at the noise. Pressing a hand to her chest, she sighed and climbed to her feet, pulling her blankets around her shoulders to stave off the chill as she shuffled to her front door. Who the hell visits someone in the middle of the night?

She opened the front door.

Tim blinked up at her. He looked like a wreck, with singed sleeves, mud caked on his clothes, and a bleeding lip. He was shivering.

"What happened to you?" Sasha asked, exhausted and bewildered.

"I didn't know where else to go," Tim said absently.

"Well, get in here, you big idiot."

As she shut the door behind him, she drew her fingers together in a warding symbol, reinforcing her protection around the cottage. One could never be too safe when it came to the sorts of trouble that Stoker got into.

* * *

Martin Blackwood scratched his quill through the line he'd just written. It didn't fit with the rest of the poem.

"In the violet heather," he mused aloud, dipping his quill in ink.

Wait, heather was already a violet plant. Damn.

He set down his quill for a moment and picked up his bowl of peaches, stabbing one with the accompanying fork. He really needed to go out and buy more food. Surviving off of peaches wasn't an option that he wanted to take.

As he took a bite, a quiet squirming sound drew his attention, and he gave a heavy sigh.

He got to his feet, abandoning his peaches, and walked into the next room over with a candle in his hand. On the ground was a little silver worm, wriggling with no real aim across the floorboards. Martin set the candle on the table. He grabbed a boot from beside the door and crushed the tiny thing in one swift motion. He put the boot back in its place.

"Nice try, Jane," he muttered. "I'm not stupid, you know."

With that taken care of, he headed back into his bedroom and sat back down at his desk. Right. Violet heather. Hmm. Perhaps violet _thicket_. Yes, that sounded nice.

He ate another peach, and wrote another line.

* * *

A rustle. _Leaves? Clothing?_ The snap of a twig, to the left. _Light footsteps._

Harsh, ragged breathing.

Nose to the ground. Earthy, overpowered by the metallic tang of _BloodInjuredPrey_. Heart rate picking up.

Quiet whimpering. "Oh, spirits, please. Please. Please, I..." Swearing. A choked-off cry.

Listen. Soft, getting louder. Another rustle. Thick, coarse fabric on skin. Panic as pungent as sweat. The crackle of undergrowth beneath a boot. A person, tall and trembling, staggering by on unsteady legs. Unsuspecting of his surroundings.

_There._

With a snarl, a huge beast lunged from the treeline, slamming hard into her prey and easily pinning his flailing body to the forest floor. She buried her claws in his shoulders as he shrieked, writhing and desperate, kicking at her from beneath, but his pathetic struggles failed to destabilize her—She was all rippling muscle and shiny white fangs.

She bared her teeth close to his throat, and her prey instantly went rigid, chest heaving.

His eyes were wide, pupils dilated with terror.

"Please, please," he croaked, gaze darting wildly from left to right, hopelessly seeking escape. Rescue.

If the massive wolf atop him could have laughed, she would have.

Snap. More crunching of leaves. The wolf's ears flicked back at the sound. A different scent had arrived: soap, and cedar.

_SafeHomePartnerBasira._

The wolf relaxed somewhat, still keeping all of her weight bearing down on her squirming prey. Basira strode into view, strapping her bow across her back.

"Good work, Daisy," she said. The wolf— _no, Daisy, that's right, yes, she's Daisy_ —made a high-pitched chirping noise at the approval. Her prey began to beg Basira to help him, to save him, but her partner only scratched Daisy's head and appraised her prey. "You really thought you could outrun us? That's really..."

"B-Brave?" her prey tried frantically.

"Stupid," Basira said. "Really stupid. Nice try, though. Off," she said to Daisy.

Although reluctant to let her prey go, Daisy trusted Basira not to let him bolt. She stepped off of him and went to stand by her partner. Basira flipped the injured prey over in one swift movement, then knelt on his back and bound his hands tightly behind him. Once she was finished, she hauled him to his feet. He groaned pitifully when he tried to walk.

"You really did a number on him," she said. Daisy sniffed haughtily. It wasn't her fault that the dumb prey tried to rip his leg from her jaws. "Come on, then. Let's get him to town and collect our reward."

Basira shoved their captured prey forward, with Daisy right on her heels.

The hunt was over.

* * *

The knife buried itself in its target, right down to the hilt.

Melanie King huffed a laugh. She straightened, admiring her handiwork. The tree was riddled with little gouges and marks from her throwing practice, which was admittedly unsatisfying, but it would have to do. It was placating enough for the hum in her blood, and that was all that mattered.

Striding over to the tree, she yanked the knife out and used her shirt to wipe off the shiny steel. Early morning sunlight filtered through the canopy above her, glinting off the polished metal. There was a nice, cool breeze.

The weapon was well made. Excellent craftsmanship. This was her favorite knife, of all the various types she owned.

"Alright," she said quietly to herself, stepping back and raising the knife. "Okay."

Closing her eyes, she whirled around in a tight, controlled spin, and blindly threw the knife.

She opened one eye tentatively, then grinned.

It was stuck in the bark of a tree fifteen feet away.

"You rock, Miss King."

* * *

Jonah Magnus left the Magnus Institute with a spring in his step.

Jonathan wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting, but was no less exciting. He had a bite to him, just like Gertrude, though Jonah knew with time it would prove to be a of the manageable sort. That was all that Jon was. Manageable. _Malleable_. Jonah could dig his fingers in and shape to his heart's desire. He could yank his strings in any direction and Jon would _dance_.

 _Ah-ah,_ he chastised himself. Best to be careful with things like that. Straying too far into the Mother's territory would be a mistake.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it was a new day. Jonah allowed himself a smile as he strode down the busy street, away from his temple of knowledge.

"Hello, sir," he greeted a vendor, who grinned brightly at him as he passed. "Lovely outside today, isn't it?"

"Warm enough to enjoy some sweet and juicy fruits! Care to purchase a few?"

"I'm afraid I'm all out of coins today." He made a show of patting his pockets to the disappointed vendor. "Good luck, though."

"Aw, that's alright, thank you kindly sir!"

Jonah strode away from the smiling vendor, crossing his hands behind his back, coins jingling in his pockets. Yes, it was quite a lovely day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *posts a chapter directly after I finish writing it, with no other chapters written* there's no way this will backfire on me
> 
> so sorry this took so long, updates should be faster after this since I struggle with writing beginnings for some reason
> 
> next chapter sneak peek: apprenticeship, and some casual occultism.
> 
> leave a comment if you enjoyed <3
> 
> (also don't feel shy, pls tell me if there are any spelling/grammar/continuity errors and I'll fix it! only constructive crit, though)


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